


Game of Thrones

by Syl Sinclaire (D_Genesis)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Situations, Bottom but not a doormat or girly in manner!Harry, Bottom!Harry, Character Deaths, Disturbing adult content & themes, Gore, Multi, Suggestive Dialogue, Top!Tom, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 05:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/658525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_Genesis/pseuds/Syl%20Sinclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em><strong>Thrones:</strong> the ultimate in power plays to occur in Hogwarts set between two factions, but not one performed since the Founding. Until the arrival of Harris Peverell and his group of misfit Durmstrang students. Caught in a game of vicious, constantly changing rules, who can really be the victor? And at what price, especially with the wizarding war right upon their doorstep? </em>
</p><p>
  <strong>Top!Tom/Harry</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Ashes

**Warnings:** AU. Major canon butchery, so expect characters in strange placements and events being entirely different. Tom and Harry's sixth year. **Eventual Slash. (boy x boy) _Darkish-grey/scheming/intelligent-Harry._** Other characters will be OOC as well. Considering Tom's nature, his 'feelings' for Harry, once developed, will be **dark**. So do not expect declarations of love from him at any point or fluffiness without ulterior motives, you'll be disappointed. **Character deaths** _because once I get going, people will start dying, forgot this warning before._ **Un'beta'd!**  
I have warned you. If you are uncomfortable with any of this, then turn back now.  
 **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction and therefore I do not own the characters etc... Yup, we good?  
 **Main pairings: (Top/bottom)** _Eventual,_ Tom Riddle Jr./Harry Potter (But not a main theme, more an eventuation of a number of situations than a driving plot of its own.)

For readers of my other stories, no I'm not really back. I'm actually out of the country pretty soon and won't be back for a month or so more (and thus unable to write,) this was the product after reading The Fictionist's Fate's favourite. Plus... I still owe Kreyana a fic. (6 pages in on that, and stuck. I will get there!) Oh and new poll up.

* * *

-x&x-

**1**

**From Ashes**

_Let’s dwell here, in the ashes; amidst the falling rain._  
 _Forget about our troubles and tomorrow, try again._  
 _~ D.Genesis_

Marko was running.

All around him he could hear the screams of other children—his school mates; some younger, some older, some friends, others not—their cries echoing loudly around the halls, ricocheting from wall to wall throwing him off balance and _shit_... but could see _no one_. Not a single bloody thing in the thick shroud of black that threatened his very life. The crackling of fire hissed around him in taunt, filled his nose with acrid fumes and heat licked at his face, exposed flesh and hair and...

Oh Merlin, he was too young to die!

There was so much he had left to do. He had homework due the next day... an assignment he’d left to the last minute. Stupid. He was so stupid. His parents would be so mad... He swallowed, choked, _coughed_.

His eyes and throat stung and burned and he was growing dizzy... _Smoke inhalation?_

And, he couldn’t really tell if he was going in the right direction to escape the winding, burning halls of the school turned death-trap. What if he was going the wrong way? He thought he was heading in the correct direction, but it was disorientating, this lack of proper sight and he had been turned around once before by someone knocking into him in the fire produced gloom.

Merlin his parents! What would they think?

What would they _do_? All he could see was darkness, infinitely stretched out before him like his own personal, shadowy walk to the gallows, more than ready to take him and it couldn’t end this way. It couldn’t—

But, he could picture his mother, stern yet kind. His father with that same stoic glance, but eyes that bellied true pride in his accomplishments, that offered words of praise...

He _couldn’t_ die.

He couldn’t leave them like that. His mother would be heartbroken, likely have his coffin swimming in flowers— _and who even said they’d_ **have** _a body to mourn? In all likelihood this will be my funeral pyre_ —all lilies, because she loved them so and they were meant to represent purity, weren’t they? His father would disagree, want something a little more... masculine but refined and an argument would ensue but his mother would win it, because she _always_ won it and then... and then...

Abruptly, he was being hauled forward with astounding force. He stumbled to keep up, almost tripping several times over barely tied boots.

Warm, solidness was gripping his shoulder and magic— _lush and intense and familiar, why so familiar?_ —wrapped around him like a blanket, dampening the heat from flesh eating flames and cloying smoke—

Left, right, left, right, left, left... It went on for what seemed an eternity. He lost count of all the turns he took.

Then he was outside.

The cool Scandinavian air attacked his burning, gasping, _damaged_ lungs. The occasional flash of spell fire being exchanged a little further away barely registering in his mind, though it lit up the sky like fireworks, adding a strange beauty to the backdrop of dancing, golden-red flames. He was alive!

_Air!_

He gulped down large mouthfuls of oxygen, choked as it stung his smoke-ruined throat and lungs, then fell to his knees as his head swam in his greed. Not used to the glut of oxygen suddenly invading his previously starved airways. The solidness— _fingers? A_ _hand?_ —at his shoulder vanished.

“Can you stand?” The voice was hurried, but smooth and calming in a way he’d never believe possible.

Glancing up, head still muzzy and eyes stinging, he tried to nod at his saviour, froze and did a retake.

Harris Peverell.

Eyes the same shade of instant death—a vivid, beautifully _poisonous_ green—stared back at him from an inhumanly angelic face. His ivory skin painted a bloody scarlet by the flickering firelight and shadowed by streaks of soot. The boy looked like something from a horror—or a romance—novel, just another of Lucifer’s fallen angels, ready to tempt one to the very cusp of sin and abandoned them there.

He smelled of fire but not smoke.

Marko owed a life debt for this and for once, the proud boy _didn’t_ mind. Didn’t care that he’d just played the damsel in distress... it wasn’t often that Peverell paid attention to anyone outside those of his selected group, ‘The Elite’ of Durmstrang. And to think that at one point he’d dubbed the Peverell heir ‘The Angel of Death.’ It seemed fitting at the time, if childish, but of course he’d been jealous of the other boy, for a while—how could he _not_ be?—and now he’d been _saved_ by that same boy. The irony.

Shame filled him but more than that, was relief. He was so terribly _relieved_ that he found himself trembling, almost unable to stop the hysterical laughter on the verge of bubbling up his seared, raw throat.

Euphoric. That’s what he was.

His fingers convulsed, dug into the ground, dirt embedded itself beneath his nails and blades of sooty grass, soft yet sharp prickled against his palm. His lips moved, sincere and relieved and awed and so many other emotions all at once.

“...Thank-you.” His voice was gravelly. It hurt. That didn’t matter. At least he still had the capacity to speak, to breathe, to _live_.

Admittedly he wasn’t sure what to expect next. Should he say something else? Was he meant to wait? What? He wished he knew or had some sort of prompt... After years of anonymity he was being noticed by the one person everyone longed for some form of acknowledgement from.

Harris Peverell was the leader of the Elites—a Sect of the most powerful, influential or talented students in the school—and as such, virtually untouchable by anyone else. Not that Peverell himself enforced such, but rather, the inner circle of his Sect jealously guarded him and their positions, making it impossible to get near the green-eyed teen unless he approached first or, one got lucky enough to encounter him alone.

Next to impossible.

The boy was always surrounded by his adoring Sect-mates.

Briefly, he wondered why the boy _wasn’t_ being crowded by his overzealous Sect-mates now. In this situation, shouldn’t they be looking to him for guidance?

 _Besides_ , another part of him questioned, _shouldn’t he have been in his dorm with most of them?_ His eyes swept the other, finally taking in some vital details. Peverell was fully dressed. Not partially clad in his pyjamas like practically every other student Marko could see staggering around.

He ignored the way his mind pointed out that he, himself, was also fully clothed.

“Don’t thank me,” the other murmured, voice like liquid sex and Marko shivered, spellbound but didn’t dare move.

Then a wand was drawn, pressed to his neck and Marko didn’t even think to flinch at the speed nor the fact it was pointed at the vulnerable flesh beneath his Adam’s apple. A whisper fell from the other boy’s lips and he closed his eyes, waited— _For what?_

His throat tingled, warmed and breathing didn’t hurt so much anymore. His eyes opened, perplexed.

The dark-haired boy nodded at him, satisfied. “You should be fine,” he added, wand vanishing up a sleeve.

Marko blinked and was helped back to his feet. Embarrassment surged within him and he felt his cheeks heat. _Right_. What had he been expecting, anyway? A kiss or something equally moronic? He _wasn’t_ interested in other boys. He was very much straight, and had a girlfriend he _loved_ but...

Being around the other student confused him.

There was this intensely hypnotic _draw_ that went beyond physical attraction— _although there is **that**_ **,** he concluded with some unease—but rather something deeper, infinitely more... that reached into him and _pulled_ , refusing to let him go. If he didn’t already have a fair idea of the other’s background, he’d swear the boy possessed traces of some creature. Veela had their allure, vampires their thrall and various others possessed something of the like and Harris—

 _Harris?_ He inwardly shuddered, delight and... something darker warring for dominance. _Peverell_ , he corrected himself, silencing his internal battle. _I’m not familiar enough to use his first name_.

Something inside him crumpled. A bit.

He shook his head, clearing it and swallowed, relishing the fluidity—ease—of something as normal as saliva passing through his throat without the sensation of dragging sandstone or glass rubbing against the sensitive inner tissue of his oesophagus.

Peverell didn’t _have_ to cure him of the smoke inhalation but had, just like he’d dragged him from the flames.

Opening his mouth, he intended to say something but stopped, it seemed he’d been forgotten already. The other’s gaze darting from the vision of their burning school to the duelling that was going on down near the forest in contemplation. His face had shifted, blanked and the temperature around them plummeted.

Marko shivered in the sudden deathly chill and he felt the beginnings of fear once more. It passed as quickly as it came.

 _Wait..._ he thought, brows creased and watching the sky flash different colours. _Duelling?_

What was going o—an attack. He straightened, jaw clenching and mind clicking sharply into focus. The school had been attacked? Was _still_ under attack. _Who the hell attacks a school?_ Dumb question, even if it was internal.

“Grindelwald?” he queried, needing confirmation.

Startling green eyes flashed back to him, intense, considering—and Marko felt his breath hitch at being the centre of this boy’s attention. Under _that_ , assessing, soul-searing gaze which made him feel both bizarrely thrilled at the accomplishment and _terrified_ in a way he didn’t understand—then away.

“Would appear so.”

Marko let out a shaky breath, his muscles unknotting once those eyes left him. Gods, he was both envious and pitying of those Peverell had close to him. It felt like his soul was stripped and laid bare for all to see with that one look alone... and he wanted it again.

“Why attack the school?”

The other’s mouth twitched. “Grudge,” the other boy informed him, musingly. “Statement, target, threat. All of the above, _none_ of the above. Take your pick.”

 _Okay, fine_. He got it. So the other boy _didn’t_ have any theories or if he did, wasn’t sharing. Although, a... “Grudge?”

“Grindelwald was expelled from here,” the boy drawled, impatiently. Apparently he’d decided he was done with the subject. Typical. Certain subjects seldom held his attention long. But at least Marko was being answered, he recalled several red-faced individuals who’d tried to gain Peverell’s attention—from his own Sect—and were blatantly ignored.

“If you see any of the younger students, you know where to take them,” the other added.

Marko couldn’t stop himself. He gaped, the boy couldn’t be serious... “You can’t mean—”

“Harry!”

Both boys turned as Damon Tresler—the Demon of Durmstrang—appeared, face soot blackened and smelling of char, his expression was one of complete and utter relief. He looked like he was about to grab Peverell—and hug him or some such thing—and only just stopped himself before contact was made.

Marko felt sympathetic of the older boy, _he’d_ only been in Peverell’s presence less than ten minutes and he’d been forced to fight off the irrational urge to snap at Tresler to back off. Still, the way in which the German boy was staring at Peverell was making Marko uncomfortable, like he was intruding on something he had absolutely no right to see.

Ludicrous!

They weren’t lovers. If Peverell _ever_ took a lover it would be all over the school and beside, all his Sect-mates looked at him like that.

It was ridiculous and he contemplated, briefly, if he was simply going mad with the sudden stress. But... hadn’t he heard, in the deepest, darkest corners of Durmstrang, that Peverell could perform powerful _wandless_ magic? It was never verified. Simply rumours but they went a long way into explaining this pull.

Peverell’s gaze promptly swept the German boy’s form in kind. _Assessing?_

“You are alright... We could not find... We are being so worrie—” Tresler went on in his broken English.

“Where are the others?”

Tresler halted. “I was sending them to deal with younger years. Not Kresten. He was looking for you...” he trailed off, clearly noticing that the Danish boy, Kresten Nordskov, _wasn’t_ with their esteemed leader and yes, he may have been just a tad bit jealous he’d been so carelessly dismissed out of mind.

“He must have just missed me as I was exiting the castle,” the green-eyed teen theorised, tilted his head in query. “Injuries?”

“Taken care of.”

Peverell nodded, twisted around, took a step back toward the burning school.

“No!” Tresler exclaimed, and again barely stopped himself from seizing Peverell’s shoulder, Marko noted with intrigue. Wasn’t the guy meant to be Peverell’s third? Not his right hand, certainly, that place went to the missing Kresten Nordskov. But was he not allowed to... touch Peverell at all? No, that couldn’t be right. Marko had _seen_ them exchanging pats on the shoulder... hadn’t he? “Let me go and—”

But the other boy had already marched off—singed robes flaring out behind him, almost like the great shadowy wings of a fallen angel he strongly resembled—back into the inferno with complete disregard for his own safety.

Tresler followed behind instantly, rigid but resolute.

And abruptly, Marko felt strangely bereft. The scent of smoke was beginning to overpower him again as it wafted from the burning castle and the night air descended, chilling him in a way that wasn’t as comforting as it had been mere moments before but more than that, he felt Peverell’s magic depart and it was like a physical blow to his system. Like being submerged in a steaming bath only to step out into the snow.

Was it really that compelling? Because a large part of him was very tempted to run back into the castle after the boy just to feel that calming weight settled around his shoulders once more and that... that _really_ couldn’t be healthy.

Marko was utterly dumbfounded. He was coming to... _almost_... understand the strange loyalty Peverell evoked in his little gathering of— _acquaintances_? _friends_? _Something else_?—now and it clearly wasn’t for simple reasons. It was obviously more complex than he’d initially concluded...

 _How unsettling_ , he conceded, inwardly.

He seriously needed to rethink many of his previous assumptions. Indeed, he had plenty to keep his mind occupied, but first... he had to find his girlfriend, to make sure she was safe. He turned and forced himself to walk away.

**-TMHP-**

Healer Clary wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, beginning to feel the pressure of the situation getting to her.

Only she had any real qualifications at healing, her colleagues had limited knowledge at best and there were so many students wounded. So many suffering the ill effects of smoke inhalation, cuts, bruises, spell damage...

She shuddered. It was her worst nightmare come to life but there was only so much she herself could do without falling flat from magical exhaustion and she’d already failed some of the poor mites already...

Unable to stop herself, she turned, catching a glimpse of a bowed head, shadow-dark hair falling forward and obscuring the deathly pale face from sight. It made her heart ache to see the boy like that. Even when he’d stumbled into the infirmary as a first year with broken bones, blackened eyes or suffering from some spell or another, Harris Peverell had _never_ looked so utterly dejected.

The boy was... an enigma.

He’d been raised predominantly by muggles, from what she knew of his history. Bounced from an orphanage to a family and back again repeatedly. That _had_ to have some sort of impact on a growing child’s psyche but for all intents and purposes, he was remarkably well adjusted.

And intelligent.

Perhaps not as bright as his little... friend, Azel Dalca, the school genius but seldom seemed to matter in relation to their school work and for all his brilliance Harris never bragged, unlike many of his peers with less competence. He was always polite and helpful with an unrivalled charisma that drew everyone around him in but more than that, he was a hard worker. Driven.

And _powerful_. The boy was powerful. His instinctual grasp on magic _phenomenal_. Of course, she’d only seen it herself a handful of times, and heard about it more often than not from her colleagues at the standard teacher meetings. Amongst her peers, he was considered a prodigy and she was hard put not to agree.

But for all that she knew about the boy—the standard, inconsequential things—there was infinitely more about him that she _didn’t_ know and just as with everyone else, it filled her with a certain curiosity.

The boy belonged to a Sect now—one of his own founding, since the age of thirteen—and sat at the top of the school hierarchy. A place that was near impossible to keep and yet, there had been no challenges. None obvious at least and no surprise visits from students in opposing Sects and three years on, his place was not usurped.

For the more naïve of her peers, this meant nothing but for her it showed much and even the boy’s angelic appearances couldn’t always assuage her fears of what could happen if—

“I’ll go with you to inform his parents.”

The words were softly spoken, but blankly and something about it made Clary’s heart squeeze painfully in her chest. _How could I possibly think the boy a monster?_ She turned away, unable to watch the boy grieve. _Maybe I am reading too much into this._

Beneath them, the wooden floor of the Durmstrang ship swayed gently.

“That will not be necessary, Peverell—”

“I _will_ go with you,” the boy insisted and it made Clary’s insides squirm. “His parents will require explanations. Only I have those to give.”

Dierk Vann—High master of what once was Durmstrang Institute—inclined his head very slowly, as though not willing to concede. Both males were impossibly proud but old Dierk often gave way with sound reason.

“Very well,” the man said, tone firm but not entirely unkind. “I’ll summon you once we have landed in safety. Preparations must be made...”

He strode purposefully to the door, Clary following behind, the stasis wards on the young Luka Arrats’ body already in place.

“You are not at fault here,” Dierk added, pausing. “We owe the many lives that continue to your fast thinking. Be grateful and do not make a mockery out of Arrats’ sacrifice by assuming he didn’t know exactly what he was doing when he took that curse meant for you.”

Clary turned at the sharp sting of magic curling around her and caught glowing green eyes peering out of a too handsome face.

“May the other’s be allowed in?” Harris questioned, quietly. “To say their goodbyes?”

The headmaster hesitated a moment, then nodded. “They may,” he granted, “but only for a few moments. Then I expect you all to return to your quarters to rest. The next few days will be quite trying.”

Harris stared a moment longer then sighed. “Of course.”

“Clary,” Dierk said, barely sparing her a glance. Understandable, given when in the presence of Harris it was hard to look away. “If you could?”

“Certainly, High master,” she assured and watched him leave. Her eyes darted briefly to the only other occupant of the room, but he was staring at the still figure of Luka again. She had little time to wait before more boys entered the already too crowded room and, as if reading a silent cue, spread themselves out around their fallen Sect-mate. But instead of looking at him, their eyes were focused on Harris.

“He will be remembered as a hero,” Kresten Nordskov guaranteed, his usual placid expression fierce. “We will see to it.”

“We _will_ ,” the typically silent Azel Dalca reaffirmed, a moment later. “And so much more.”

At that, the Peverell heir’s face tilted upwards, his gaze locking on Azel’s with a concentration that was paralysing. Nothing was said for many moments in which the rest of the group—and Clary, included—shifted in an uneasy quietness, until Harris smiled and the restlessness dispersed.

Clary wasn’t sure what to make of all the boys’ expressions at that but didn’t give herself time to ponder the meaning. It wasn’t her business, after all and if she thought to question the reason she put up no fight as Harris politely asked if she’d mind exiting the room a few minutes, she put it all down to the boys wanting to say their goodbyes without an outsider of their Sect as a witness.

Not once did her mind wander back up that questionable alley of dark possibilities which emanated from Harris Peverell like a sinister halo.

And not once did she realise that she had already fallen under his spell.

**-TMHP-**

Harry subtly cast his eyes around at the castle that was to be his new... home, he supposed, for the next year and a bit and found himself reluctantly impressed.

Hogwarts was much more expansive than Durmstrang’s four-levelled castle. Though the grounds were much smaller and the students here seemed rather... pampered in his opinion. Certainly more than they’d ever been back at his old school which was more likely to breed soldiers as opposed to scholars. He detested the new curriculum, though. He’d be dropping several classes since Hogwarts didn’t offer them.

Still, he found the place more than acceptable, poor syllabus aside. It wasn’t like he was unable to teach himself. He’d already replaced everything that hadn’t been saved during the fire, his books included and was already a year or two ahead in several of the subjects... No, it wouldn’t be a problem at all. If worst came to worst, he could always send a letter to his old teachers. They’d be more than willing to assist him, he knew.

His gaze shifted... falling upon their appallingly attired host, of sorts.

 _Dumbledore_.

Deputy headmaster and Transfiguration professor. He was an oddity to Harry but also noticeably _very_ powerful. Also rather visibly uneasy. However if this was due to the sudden intake of students from Durmstrang, the students themselves or the attack which took out an entire school, Harry couldn’t say.

 _How very curious_ , Harry reflected, keeping his expression one of polite disinterest. Certainly, as he had caught several aborted glances in his direction from the man. Well, it seemed that he was the main cause for the man’s wariness, or, at the very least piqued curiosity.

The Peverell pondered the reasons for those looks, having done nothing to warrant such scrutiny. At least, nothing that his old Headmaster, Vann could disclose. So what was it...

 _My childhood, perhaps_? He paused, deliberated. Now _that_ held some merit. His childhood was one unfortunate chain of events littered with death, which had earned him a rather regrettable moniker by his peers. Until they had gotten to _know_ him in which case, it had been dropped.

Unfortunate, really. Still, he was nothing if not a product of his unique circumstances, determination and drive. He refused to mope over a lost childhood if it also meant its survival would equate to him developing a different character. He’d never have gotten as far without it.

“What do you think?”

His eyes settled on the wiry form of Azel, the one to pose the question.

“Not now,” Roman growled at boy, and Harry felt the boy’s eyes fall upon him, as though seeking approval.

Really, the way they acted sometimes wore on his nerves. They were young men, soon to be adults—or in Damon’s case, already there—their bickering for his attention was infantile. As such, he ignored the desperate, probing glance as the group waited for their official guide to show them around. Fortunately, class was still in so there would be no additional hassle of gawking students just yet.

He’d cross that bridge once he reached it. Personally, he wasn’t much looking forward to that. Being paraded around like an exotic pet wasn’t really to his tastes.

The soft tread of someone approaching caught his attention and he turned to study who he presumed was to be their guide for the afternoon.

 _Well, that’s interesting._ Harry was momentarily taken aback.

The newcomer was tall, roughly of a height with Damon, the tallest in their group— _Sixth year? Seventh?_ —Slim with a handsome, chiselled face and penetrating eyes that looked grey one moment and almost indigo the next.

“Good afternoon Professor Dumbledore,” the teen greeted pleasantly after a minute pause.

The auburn haired man smiled in return, his unease gone. “Why yes, good afternoon Tom. If you would please show these young men around the school? I’m certain Headmaster Dippet has given you all the details?” he asked, kindly.

The boy, Tom apparently, straightened slightly. “He has, Sir.”

“Good, good,” Dumbledore said, eyes... _twinkling?_ Harry’s own cooled in suspicion. “Right, I shan’t take up anymore of your time. But remember boys, my office door is always open,” this seemed more aimed at the Peverell than anyone else. “If you ever need anything or simply to talk.”

Harry watched the man go, contemplative.

Definitely needed Azel to dig into the man’s past... But those parting few moments had seemed almost _hopeful_. Why though, when only moments before he’d been wary? A ruse? Or did it have something to do with the arrival of their escort? His eyes shifted back to the teen in question.

“My name’s Tom Riddle,” the boy announced very precisely. “Sixth form prefect for Slytherin house as such, if you need assistance with anything you can come to me. I must admit, I was only given a very brief explanation as to the circumstances of your arrival... It is most unfortunate what happened to your school. A loss, I am certain you must still feel keenly.”

“It is not something we have comfort speaking of,” Damon said as the oldest and stand in Sect-leader while Harry assessed their new situation. Despite his words, he didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable. “You understand.”

Riddle nodded, looking solemn. His eyes however, were glittering darkly.

“I am Damon Tresler. This,” the seventh year gestured, “is Roman Sewick, Azel Dalca, Harris Peverell and Kresten Nordskov.”

Harry didn’t appreciated how that smoky-indigo stare settled on him longer than the rest of his group.

Surname. It had to be his surname. All purebloods knew of the Peverells; a powerful old family that predated even Hogwarts’ illustrious founders’ time. Many of the prominent pureblood lines claimed ancestry to the Peverells, which meant Riddle was a well-learned muggleborn when it came to wizarding lineage or the boy was a halfblood.

Or a pureblood. The odds were against this. But he may have been adopted by a muggleborn or halfblood. He may even have changed his name for safety precautions. Doubtful but still a possibility and everything was to be taken into account.

Riddle smiled. “A pleasure. Now if you’ll follow me?”

He promptly turned on his heel and led them down the spiralling stair and out into the main part of the school. Harry followed along silently listening to the boy as he gave brief explanations of everything the other part of his attention split between the silent conversation he was holding with his Sect-mates.

‘That was without point,’ Damon signed. His fingers flashing rapidly in their unique sign language. ‘It seems he already knows you lead, Harry.’

‘Stick with the plan,’ Harry returned just as swiftly. ‘It could have been my name.’

‘He looks a little like you, Harry,’ Kresten signalled, fingers jerking in quick, erratic movements. He almost seeming affronted. Probably was. The silvery-eyed boy took offense to _any_ perceived slight against him.

Harry and Damon exchanged glances. The latter smirked. ‘You _could_ be cousins,’ he signed lazily. ‘By looks.’

Yeah, actually. Harry had considered the same. They were _eerily_ similar looking. Same dark hair, although his was longer and straight not wavy or combed back like Riddle styled his. Nor were his features as sharp as the Riddle’s.

‘Maybe we are,’ he conceded. For all he knew, the boy _could_ be a relation. However distantly. He’d never truly bothered looking for family members it seemed pointless even after spending the first few years of his life bouncing between the orphanage or another stranger’s home wondering and _hoping_...

He wasn’t that naïve anymore.

‘Halfblood then,’ Roman contributed, his focus clearly more on Riddle than them. He wasn’t even trying to hide the glower that had formed on his face as he stared at the boy. ‘I was thinking muggleborn with the surname.’

Of course. Despite that he’d been teaching them, considering blood status was still instinctive. He supposed he should be glad Roman hadn’t outright sneered in Riddle’s face.

The tour ended some time later in front of a damp stretch of wall, deep beneath the castle and through a labyrinth of dungeons.

“And this,” said Riddle, “ is our common room— _Fatali_.”

The wall suddenly moved, ground back, opening enough to form a doorway. The prefect stepped through.

The walls inside were darker stone than outside and dappled, ghostly green light filtered in from various windows. A large fireplace took pride of place in the room, it’s mantelpiece elaborately decorated with skulls and above which lay etched the image of a great serpent. Comfortable looking sofas of deep sable leather and tables of equally dark wood were scattered around the room. It brought to mind the image of a shipwreck.

Beautiful and eerie.

Riddle stood aside, folded his arms and offered a sharp smile. “Welcome to Slytherin.”

* * *

My First Tom/Harry ever.

Just a note: Harry is not OMG-super-powered! His magic is equal to Tom's. Nor is Harry impossibly intelligent. He is smart, but not as smart as Tom or Azel. Harry's intelligence is more... intuitive? with strokes of true genius. Harry is NOT dark. His affinity is grey, that somewhat straddles darkness on occasion.

EDIT: Harry's excessive attractiveness... (Thanks for the question!) Anyway, he is about as hot as Tom. Just not as... sharp around the edges.

So, like it? Hate it? Please let me know. Seeing feedback on what I could do better or what's already working is great.


	2. House of Snakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The result of really weird dreams... Couldn't sleep and voila! Hope you like it. Thanks much for the comments and reviews :)

\--x&x--

**2**

**House of Snakes**

_In Slytherin you’ll find your home; where those of greatness dwell._  
 _In which strong friendships can be forged; true enemies just as well._  
 _~ D. Genesis_

\--x&x--

 

Tom Riddle was many things and fortunately, stupid wasn’t one of them.

He wasn’t deemed a genius for nothing, nor did he believe in letting his innate skills and talents go to waste when he had them for a reason and they could be applied to anything and at every opportunity. As such, he knew that the newest additions to his house were going to be an issue. It was a foregone conclusion; as clear as day to anyone that cared to look.

Just how serious, however, was yet to be determined.

He moved to the side of the room unobtrusively, arms crossed over his chest.

His eyes alighted first on the sandy-blond haired Ukrainian.

Roman Sewick, as far as he recalled, was from old blood. Influential and prominent on the political scene... Then there was Damon Tresler, a Lord recently appointed, family older and more powerful than Sewick’s. Azel Dalca was... from a passable family, with enough political clout to make things tedious and Kresten Nordskov...

Tom paused, swiftly searching through his memory for any recollection in regards to the Nordskov family but... Nothing. He’d never heard of them.

Halfblood? Had to be. He’d never paid any particular attention to bloodlines once they lost their purity; unless they held some sort of significance and Durmstrang wouldn’t permit muggleborns into their school...

A halfblood in a group of relatively well-known purebloods...? There _had_ to be a reason. There was no doubt the boys were aware of Nordskov’s blood status. It couldn’t simply be due to ‘friendship.’ The Sewicks, at least, were pureblood supremacists.

His gaze drifted again.

Peverell.

The resemblance between them was... disconcerting.

Peverell was like... a _softer_ , _smaller_ version of himself; all the sharp edges smoothed over and buffed and made all new, to be more subtle and infinitely more disarming in a loathsome... _innocent_ sort of way.

It _disgusted_ him and yet, there was _nothing_ remotely innocent about the boy himself. Certainly not with eyes like that; killing-curse green and dark in a way that revealed he had seen humanity at its worst, knew _exactly_ how the world operated and could manoeuvre within that world with ease. No difference between them there and _that_ was what intrigued him.

What _other_ similarities did they share?

An obvious affinity when it came to leadership, considering the manner in which Peverell handled his fellow Durmstrang students. That they all deferred to him while pretending to follow Tresler, well... It made Tom that much more cautious and intensely curious about the other boy. That they both seemed to hide behind masks: his, the perfect student and Peverell’s, the follower of a powerful young lord...

Oh, he applauded their efforts in attempting to lead everyone astray, certainly; their acting skills were... _impeccable_.

Just not good enough.

Admittedly, they weren’t obvious in the usual way and their interactions were as fascinating as they were bizarre. Nevertheless, the fact that the transfers all tended to just... _gravitate_ around Peverell, like he was the post that tethered them to the here and now, a sun in their own unique little universe, was rather informative.

As was the fact Sewick and Nordskov seemed to hate Tom on sight and instinctively tried to place themselves between him and their real leader.

A subconscious acknowledgement that he was either equal or possessed a superior station to themselves in some way and was, therefore, considered a threat. They didn’t know him well enough for it to be any other cause; he was very careful about having his name leaked out of the school for this very reason.

But to be considered a threat so early... and to whom?

Themselves? Were Nordskov and Sewick scared he’d usurp their places in their tight knit little group? If so, he must possess _something_ they had in common. Some... trait or ability that marked him out as a possibility. His magical power? He certainly outstripped them... Peverell, he was unsure about, the boy’s magic reigned in tightly... but no, it had to be more than that.

His position as prefect?

Possible.

His role revealed he possessed a certain level of intelligence and was held in high regard by, at the very least, his own head of house and the head master, therefore in a position of power within the school...

There was other possibilities of course. Some as simple as a show of pettiness and their dislike of sharing. Maybe they just didn’t like the thought of anyone else muscling in near Peverell. His own followers were much the same, constantly vying for his attention, jealous of anyone else that managed to catch it, even for a short time. It amused him and at the very least offered him a form of entertainment when he got bored...

 Then again, it could be something else. Was it concern, perhaps, for their leader’s sake? Were they scared he’d hurt the other boy?

Wasn’t that just _precious_?

Admittedly, this had potential.

But implied, again, some form of prior knowledge in relation to him or at least enough from their brief introduction and, again, pointed out something about it marked him as a direct threat to Peverell...

His lips pulled up into a viciously little half-smirk. He hadn’t done a thing yet and already their hackles were raised and their game pieces exposed. Albeit, perhaps not entirely. The only other to notice the Durmstrang students’ bizarre dynamic would be Dumbledore...

The interfering old fool was infuriatingly perceptive like that.

Still, this could work to his advantage... if he played it just right and he did enjoy a sterling challenge. It had been a while since something this truly perfect stumbled his way ready for him to pick apart and he had absolutely no intention of wasting such a glorious opportunity.

Patience wasn’t a virtue he possessed in vast quantities, nevertheless, he’d allow them some time, if for no other reason than to lull them into a false sense of security—something he doubted would happen, given their joint paranoia—or allow him a better examination of their inner workings as a group...

Tresler and Sewick would make lovely additions to his own following not to mention Peverell. Once they were all properly broken in, of course. He couldn’t have them acting out. Just the name ‘Peverell’ alone would have people from all over flocking to him in _droves_...

Yes... that would work marvellously.

But not too long. He wouldn’t allow them to gain too much footing and with their connections, that would be the first thing they attempt. Stabilisation.

Decided, he stepped forward to gain their attention, feeling annoyance swell momentarily when it took longer than usual to do this.

“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your dorms.”

He turned, expecting them to follow and guided the quintet through the common room to a heavy tapestry depicting the Slytherin crest, then up several flights of stairs.

“The sixth years’ dorm are through there,” he informed the other boys, face carefully schooled into a friendly expression as he turned to them again. “And the seventh years’ dorm are just up these stairs. All your belongings should have been relocated by now.”

Tresler nodded.

“Thank you,” the boy rumbled, voice heavily accented. He nodded to the others and as a single unit, each boy turned to their dorm.

More than satisfied for the moment, Tom retraced his steps back to the common room—still empty—and seated himself in his usual place in a tall backed armchair, leaving the five new boys to settle into their new dorms.

All of them were silent, as they had been throughout the tour around the school, not even the sound of their shoes on the stone floors carried a noise loud enough to reach his ears.

Like ghosts...

Slytherin house was definitely the best place for them: they’d have the Gryffindors up in arms in no time, the Hufflepuffs in a corner somewhere crying and the Ravenclaws flustered with their thirst for knowledge denied.

Yes, certainly better they were put in Slytherin. It helped that they’d be under his watchful eye and he had the home field advantage.

**-TRHP-**

The dorm was _exactly_ as he expected: spacious and dark, with those same odd windows that let in feeble beams of distorted light, accentuated with little green lamps that hung from the ceiling; a modest fireplace place that—wonder of wonders—actually gave off _warmth_ ; four-poster beds lined each wall, the foot of each facing the centre of the room; a set of drawers placed on each side.

Far from the Spartan, barrack-like existence he was used to.

Harry shook his head in mild disgust.

 _Indeed_ , he mused, _pampered_.

What was wrong with a _plain_ bed? Alright, so boys their age got certain... urges... but that was what bathrooms were for. Convenient things, they were. He wasn’t certain he could sleep in there knowing there was a possibility of one of his roommates acquainting themselves intimately with their hand while he lay less than six feet away...

Right. Not going there.

Plus, there was no need for all the ridiculous frills and trimmings he saw on his.

The house elves likely kept the dorms clean, too. How were they expected to learn responsibility this way? In the real world, not everyone would have a house elf running around to clean up after them. Then again, he’d been looking after himself well before he’d even entered Durmstrang, so maybe his view was somewhat unfair.

He reached out, touched his mattress, grimaced.

Too soft.

Withdrawing his wand, he rectified the issue and eyed his four poster bed pensively. Would he get away with changing that, too? No... Hesitating, he reconsidered, removed the pointless trims and made the drapes black and heavy.

Better to leave the curtains intact; in case he’d need to use them in order to escape his new... housemates.

The acknowledgement left a bitter taste on his tongue.

Housemates _not_ Sect-mates.

His old Headmaster, Vann, had warned them about the Hogwarts’ sorting ceremony, explained it all as a type of... rite of passage into the school. He hadn’t told them what it entailed but Harry had thought it to be something like his old schools... The same way they formed Sects. But no.

He was wrong.

As they had ‘Sects’ in Durmstrang, Hogwarts favoured ‘Houses’ and luckily for them, that painful process had been taken care of _away_ from prying eyes. Apparently Dippet wasn’t as doddery as he looked...

Regardless, the Peverell heir was _not_ happy.

The formation of Sects were intricate things. Students brought together to form a common faction based on necessity, goals, skills or other reasons entirely and grew into a pseudo-family built around a single grounding principal. Each Sect had their own laws by which they were governed and different principals to which they adhered. They were difficult to form and even harder to maintain, especially the higher up you were in a hierarchy.

His Sect had been at the top and as such the most precariously situated with its members being fewer than all others.

Still, at Durmstrang they’d _chosen_ that mutually. They’d _chosen_ each other.

And at Hogwarts?

He got some demented hat that spoke directly into his mind—granted, it was an _amazing_ piece of magic that he wished to dissect at a later time, it’s legilimency had to be powerful to break his or his sect-mates’ occlumency shields—was promptly told his drive to succeed surpassed all his over traits, then deftly dubbed ‘Slytherin.’

And that was that.

No choices whatsoever. No grounding principals. No structure. _Nothing_.

A hat had basically just decided where he was being placed based off his personality... Not even bothering with his interests, goals, likes or dislikes. It was a wonder the other four managed to get into his house at all.

Then again, they were also very goal orientated, Damon’s unfailing loyalty aside.

 “Wonder if Damon hates his room already,” Kresten muttered, presumably trying to fix his bed, too.

It was amusing, for all of the boy’s magical power he couldn’t perform the simplest of spells but had no issue with anything complex. One of his _accios_ could render an unsuspecting victim unconscious if they got in the path of the item he was attempting to summon. Understandably, the silver-eyed boy had been his own victim more often than not.

“Need help?”

Kresten paused, glaring at his piece of furniture designed for sleep. “Please?”

“Could you fix mine, as well?” Azel asked.

Roman sighed from atop a suddenly very lumpy mattress. “And me.”

Arching a brow, Harry sorted out the beds of his roommates’, leaving their mattresses as firm as they had been in Durmstrang. When the other boys went on to changing their bed hangings into those identical to his own, he chose not to comment, after all, if they intended to carry on their traditions in Durmstrang, they’d also be switching beds every other day.

It was more a practise born of self-preservation, when it had just been Kresten and he as eleven year olds without the protection of a Sect to shield them. Before Damon had joined them and brought along Roman. Before he’d taken the solemn Azel in.

“I heard some of the others had already put in for a transfer, too,” Roman said. “A quarter of the school. A few more of our Sect, as well—but most of them are being home-schooled, with what happened still fresh and all, most of their parents couldn’t be swayed no matter how much Hogwarts’ is meant to be safe.”

Harry nodded. He’d expected no less, surprised as he was that he had his most loyal, and founding Sect-mates with him.

“A handful of Abaroa’s should arrive within the week,” Azel announced.

But of course _he’d_ follow Harry to Hogwarts, because things weren’t already complicated quite enough as it was. Some people really needed to get over their own little illusions of grandeur. There was a reason Abaroa had never been invited to the Sect even when his cousin was...

He felt three sets of eyes fix on him, tense.

“Think he’ll be trouble?” Roman questioned. “Even... even after what happened with... at Durmstrang?”

“Without a doubt,” replied the Peverell.

Why would something like a death stop Abaroa from being a vindictive, self-important cretin? He indisputably lacked a single decent bone in his entire body...

No problem. Damon would deal with him this time. He’d been itching to get at Abaroa.

“Harry?”

Eyes refocusing, he turned them on his Danish friend, granting his full attention. The boy shivered, then straightened where he sat.

‘Did you notice anything... off, with the prefect’s magic?’ The boy signed.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, pensive and he leaned forward, fingers already forming a response. ‘What do you mean off?’

Golden brown brows furrowed in frustration, Kresten shrugged, helpless. ‘Like... there was just something wrong with it. I’ve never felt anything like it before.’

‘Wrong?’ Roman added, frowning as he moved closer to where their exchange was being held. Azel drifted silently over as well, forming a sort of retarded circle-square. ‘How do you mean? Like... darker than normal? Lighter than normal? Imbalanced? Chaotic? Maybe he’s sick?’

Kresten pursed his lips. ‘None of those. It was like... not whole. Incomplete,’ he decided. ‘Like it was missing a piece.’

Incomplete? How could someone’s magic be missing a piece? Evidently it was possible since Nordskov sensed it. All the same, Harry had never heard of such a thing before... It was something he would look into when he had the time...

‘Missing a piece of what?’ Damon signed, entering the room and seating himself next to Kresten on his bed.

‘Door?’ Harry questioned him.

The German nodded. ‘Handled.’

Harry smiled, approving. ‘Perfect.’

‘Kresten noticed that the prefect’s magic was missing a tiny piece,’ Roman answered Damon’s previous query, fingers moving in agitation. ‘I take it that it isn’t in the usual way; like magical exhaustion?’

‘No.’ Silvery eyes narrowed. ‘It’s different.’

Roman threw up his hands, defensively for a minute. ‘Well unlike you, most of us aren’t magic sensitive. Even Harry didn’t notice that.’

‘Maybe because Harry’s been trying to keep his magic reigned in since the Deputy kept giving him looks,’ Azel put in, placidly. ‘We need to work on new codes for the prominent figures at this school. We can’t keep using “deputy” for Sir I-resemble-a-muggle-clown and “prefect” for Harry’s lookalike. Speaking of...’

“He’s entirely too perceptive,” Harry said quietly, annoyed, running his fingers through his hair.

They all glanced toward the door. Nothing stirred from beyond.

‘I’ll need to work out how to deal with him,’ he added, this time carefully signing again. ‘Now on to other matters: Portals. What sort of reworking will we need? I can’t check myself with... _him_ out there.’

Everyone turned to Kresten.

‘Not much...’ the Danish boy signed back slowly. He turned, examined the room, then moved to his current bed and set about completing the required glyphs onto each inner post with a piece of magical chalk. Withdrawing, he moved over to Harry’s bed and repeated the process before he stepped back, pleased. The chalk vanished into his pocket. ‘This should work.’

‘Then by all means...’ Roman gestured and Harry frowned, deciding he’d need to talk with the boy later.

Kresten seated himself on their leader’s bed and extracting his wand, waved it once, twice and swept it around his head like a lasso. Then he was gone. Transferred back to his own bed minus the telltale flash of light or sound. He rose, rubbing his face, looking disorientated.

Well... _that_ wasn’t meant to happen.

‘Did it work properly?’

Everyone stared.

Right. It definitely needed reworking; couldn’t wander the school with missing parts now, could they? That would earn an unwanted amount of attention. Luckily they had experience with losing bits in their earlier years, otherwise having to explain to the school healer _why_ Kresten wasn’t quite _intact_ when he’d most certainly arrived in perfect working order could become horribly troublesome.

Carefully, Harry reattached the boy’s ear. It was hot and glowing pink in embarrassment.

“Well,” Roman smirked, eyes near closed in amusement. “At least it wasn’t his di—”

Kresten glared in return. “Don’t you _dare_.”

“What?” the Ukrainian boy questioned, innocently. No one bought it. “I was about to say ‘Distal phalanges.’ You know, the tips of your _fingers_ and _toes_?”

“I’m sure you were,” Harry murmured, shaking his head. Those two, seriously. To think he was the youngest of the five. Still, a little bit of _mostly_ harmless teasing was normal. Generally, the group never went beyond that.

“I can look into it tonight,” Azel offered, quietly. “It should only need to be tweaked a little.”

“Good.” At least they’d have a way of getting in and out of the dorms without detection should it be needed and he had a feeling, they’d be employing the use of their portals frequently... Still, they needed a safe place _outside_ the dorm to travel to... and work on connecting Damon’s bed to the circuit.

There was a loud crash outside, followed by cursing then more crashes and a girl’s high pitched shriek. The group shared a look.

Damon chuckled, “Sounds like Bellatrix is come back.”

It did indeed.

Rising, Harry strode to the door and down the stairs, taking several at a time. Shoving the tapestry that concealed the boy’s dorms aside he stepped out into the common room—mostly unscathed, save for a few books scattered on the floor and an inkwell—to catch the end of a particularly irate outburst from a very attractive, golden-eyed girl.

“—menace. What imbecile let _that_ get in—”

“ _My Master_!”

Silvery-tabby fur filled his vision and claws dug into his robes as his arms were filled with eight pounds of excited, squirming jarvey. A small muzzle pressed against his neck and a wet tongue lapped at it in greeting.

“I apologise on Bellatrix’s behalf,” he murmured, perfectly contrite and offered a boyish grin. “She can get... out of hand if confined to small places for too long. I thought letting her roam the castle would calm her. I was wrong.”

The girl stopped dead, as did her companions that were still entering the common room behind her. She opened her mouth, eyes locked on him, closed her mouth and smiled demurely in return. “Oh, no. It was nothing, she just startled me is all!” A light, airy laugh followed. “I’m Elizabeth, by the way. Elizabeth Greengrass.”

Greengrass... Wealthy, pureblood family... heiress? No... Older brother.

“Harris Peverell,” he returned in kind, taking her proffered hand and bowing over it, as etiquette dictated. When he pulled back, her cheeks were a pretty pink and she looked stunned, awed. Her breath grew heavy and rapid.

“ _Peverell_?”

 _And it starts..._ He inwardly rolled his eyes.

“Yellow eyes,” Bellatrix declared loudly, drawing all attention to her and she directed a sharp, dangerous little smile at the girl. “Like... egg yolks. Can I eat them?”

Greengrass withdrew hurriedly with a tiny horrified gasp.

Bellatrix, the evil ball of fur cackled loudly; the sound strange forming in her underdeveloped voice box.

“No, Bellatrix,” Harry frowned disapprovingly down into her small, albeit, adorable pointed face. “You can’t eat her eyes. You can’t eat _anyone’s_ eyes, so stop asking. It isn’t polite.  I want you to apologise.”

She sniffed and whined mutinously. “Horrible, power grubbing little _wench_!” She turned obsidian eyes on him, pleading. “She’s unworthy of my master’s attention!”

“ _Bellatrix_.”

Head lowered, the jarvey turned toward Greengrass sulkily. “My master says I must be sorry,” she mumbled. “So sorry I am for wanting to eat your eyes... I don’t much like eggs anyway... _Too_ _soft and runny_.”

Really... Why did he even bother some times?

“And?” the green-eyed boy prompted.

“And calling you horrible and power grubbing...” Bellatrix added.

He noted she hadn’t retracted the ‘wench’ comment, though. Jealous females...

“I apologise again,” Harry said with a sigh, fixing Greengrass with look to convey his true sincerity. “If she ever says anything it’s generally better for all if it’s ignored. She’s like this with most people she just meets.”

Greengrass nodded slowly, accepting it with a small smile. “Oh.”

“She... asks that often?” Another girl, presumably Greengrass’ friend questioned, patting the golden-eyed girl on the shoulder. “To eat people’s eyes, I mean.”

“That would be my fault, I’m afraid,” Roman conceded, stepping into the common room. “I gave her blueberries one day and told her they were someone’s eyes. She won’t touch blueberries as they are, so we’ve been unable to convince her they are a fruit and not the eyes of a person.”

“You could always give her real eyes one day so she knows the difference.”

Everyone stared at the weedy looking boy who’d made the suggestion. His shoulders hunched, defensive.

“What?”

Before anyone else could add a thing, Riddle swept forward.

“That will be quite enough, Nott,” he began without preamble. “These two are a couple of the new members that our house has received. Harris Peverell—as you’ve already been briefly introduced—and Roman Sewick.

“Peverell, Sewick and three others have just transferred in from Durmstrang; you are to make them feel welcome. I think it prudent you not interrogate them while they familiarise themselves with their new surroundings, however. Head master Dippet will be making an announcement at dinner if you must know further details, I believe.”

And if Harry had still been the naïve, trusting boy he was in his younger years, he’d have taken the prefect’s words at face value and accepted that he was honestly only looking out for the best interests of Harry and his sect-mates.

As things stood, he knew just how perfectly those words veiled a threat.

Taking Riddle’s words as they were, the incoming students simply nodded and after offering the exchange students welcomes varying between curious and wary to downright flirtatious they begun conversing between themselves, drifting around the common room or up into the dorms to deposit of their school things.

Apparently Riddle was going to be more of a problem than initially believed...

How inconvenient.

“I’m just going to post this to my parents,” Roman informed him, flashing an envelope sealed with his family crest. ‘But I can stay...?’

Harry shook his head. ‘Go,’ he signed. To any outsider it would simply appear like he was flexing his fingers.

Roman left without further comment.

“An... interesting choice in familiar.”

Turning, he was met by the indigo-eyed prefect examining Bellatrix in... curiosity. Riddle couldn’t really be all that interested in the jarvey so what was he getting at? Small talk was pointless, the subject matter weak at best...

“Bellatrix, you said she was called,” Riddle added. “Is she as proficient a hunter as her name would lead one to believe? She _is_ named for the Amazon star, correct?”

“I am,” the jarvey replied instead, her own dark gaze locked on Riddle in silent assessment. “Like you; a killer.”

Oh not _this_ again. All jarveys were notorious for insulting anyone and everyone. His jarvey was just a little more... abstract with her insults and _threatening_. When he’d first come across her, she’d taken it upon herself to chase anyone who got too close to him away. Almost like a guard dog except essentially she was a talking oversized ferret.

His hand slipped over her muzzle, silencing her from further comment.

“Ignore her,” he advised the now exceedingly blank looking prefect. “She doesn’t like strangers and is more likely to... say highly inappropriate things. Her insults are just far more peculiar than most other jarveys’ tend to be.”

Those bizarre coloured eyes settled heavily on him then, dark and intrusive as if inspecting the very corners of his mind. That hadn’t happened since he’d been forced to master occlumency by the end of their second year and for the first time since then, Harry felt something akin to true discomfort rise.

If there was anything he loathed more, it was being made to feel vulnerable even if he feigned it often enough to fly under the radar. Acting the part and actually _feeling_ it were entire different.

Even Dumbledore, who was more powerful than this... boy—because yes, now they were in the common room he could feel _exactly_ how magically gifted the prefect was and perhaps that was the other’s intention after all—hadn’t made him feel nearly as edgy. Maybe it was the knowledge Riddle’s magic had a gap in it? Maybe that it felt reasonably close in strength to his own? He couldn’t tell for certain... his own still shielded, for the most part and therein lay the issue.

He didn’t _want_ to reveal the strength of his own magic and yet, being around the other, dark-eyed boy made it difficult to reign in the urge to keep it under wraps for the very same reason he was keeping it hidden in the first place: to appear weak and therefore, nonthreatening.

And maybe he’d been projecting—like he did when stressed or particularly emotional—but Bellatrix turned on the taller boy and snapped her teeth at him.

“ _My_ Master,” she warned. “ _Mine_.”

Riddle’s mouth quirked upwards in an amused expression. Beneath lay something infinitely more mocking, and almost sinister. “And possessive,” he commented, tone far more knowing than it really ought to be.

“That’s Bellatrix,” Harry smiled glibly in return.

Would it be better if he gradually drifted away? Or if he was dismissed? Though the latter smarted something fierce, he was still only new and didn’t want any undue attention focused on his person more than his name circulating the school would likely generate... and wait what?

Riddle’s eyes flashed, apparently realising he’d missed the question, and Harry could have sworn for a second there they’d looked...

 _Impossible_ , he chided himself.

“I was just asking whether the others had finished unpacking?” The prefect queried. Funny, Harry was certain it had been something else before. “Then perhaps we could go over your chosen classes; to ensure there aren’t any gaps between subjects due to the transition. What courses are you taking?”

“Advanced arithmancy,” Harry responded, slowly as Bellatrix climbed up and around his shoulders where she settled in, feeling every bit like a breathing fur scarf. “Astronomy, Charms, Defence, Herbology, Potions, Runes and Transfiguration.”

Riddle nodded, smiled and Harry could see nothing remotely dark about it, which made him more suspicious.

“We have the same classes.”

Really? Oh joy. It was sort of expected, though.

“Tom!”

A tallish boy with dark hair tumbled into the room, looking for all intents and purposes like the chew toy of a hippogriff, complete with a limp, a mangled bloody nose and an oddly hanging arm.

“If you’ll excuse me,” the prefect said, waited patiently for a nod, then went to address the boy.

Dinner that night was sure bound to be insightful if nothing else.

He wasn’t disappointed.

**-TRHP-**

Riddle proved to be a very charming and polite individual.

They discussed their subjects and the differences between how they’d been taught and the style their new teachers’ would employ. During those times, Harry would forget his mistrust for the other, only for him to be reminded by the very careful way everyone else within their house treated the amethyst-eyed boy.

With a reverence, awe and _fear_.

It was all very craftily concealed but not nearly well enough to keep him from recognising the telltale signs. He’d always been fairly perceptive and growing up the way he had taught him the brilliance of being observant and he’d seen enough fear to know all forms in which it could manifest itself.

It almost meant they had a very real problem on their hands. One made glaringly more obvious once they reached the great hall for dinner that evening.

“Really?” Reynard Lestrange—nose no longer a bloody mess, limp gone and arm fixed—was asking Roman. “Don’t you get cold then? During winter?”

 “Only if you can’t cast a decent warming charm,” the Sewick heir replied, blithely. “Understandably, it’s one of the very first charms we’re encouraged to learn. They’re also very powerful.”

Lestrange chuckled. “Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘blue balls.’ I feel your pain.”

“I’m sure you do...” Roman muttered, glaring as Lestrange made his way over to a seat at the Slytherin table.

“Roman,” Damon scolded.

The Sewick heir looked about ready to snap something back before remembering his place and shutting his mouth, though his icy blue-green eyes narrowed ever so slightly in Damon’s direction.

Harry really hoped no one had caught that.

He doubted he was that fortunate.

“Peverell.”

No. Certainly not lucky at all.

Riddle was calling him over to sit with a gang of boys—some of which Harry didn’t know the names of—across from him in the... middle of their house table.  Elsewhere, he was swift to note, everyone was seated by year groups.

This certainly had the potential to go very badly very quickly.

Okay, no problem. It was a slight set back but Harry refused to let that bother him and it wasn’t as if he’d have too much trouble disbanding it and establishing a new rule. He’d utterly decimated the previous ruling Sect in Durmstrang with little difficulty and held his position.

There was a reason he’d survived so long as one of Durmstrang’s Elite. Few thirteen year-olds could bring together a Sect of only five people and call the rest to submit without too much fighting involved. It was child’s play in comparison to the chaotic ‘real world’ he’d grown up in and was forced to navigate alone from such a young age.

He inclined his head slightly, as though in acknowledgement of Riddle’s invite but aware his fellow Durmstrang transfers were taking cues from him.

“I see it,” Kresten said, quietly and his eyes lit up in challenge and something else when he spotted the group of boys that were quite obviously the ruling party within Slytherin. “Tactic?”

 “Unchanged,” Harry returned equally as low, “Damon?”

The broad, heavily muscled seventh year of their small group moved forward and led them to Riddle, where they all slotted themselves in around the prefect. He looked perfectly fine with this. His ‘Court’ on the other hand... looked a little put out by the arrangements but said nothing of it.

“Peverell?” The sole blond of Riddle’s group questioned, he smiled and offered a hand. “Devan Rosier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **To be pre-emptive.** Harry _isn't_ all "delicate" or "effeminate" he _is_ shorter and smaller than Tom, yes. But Tom's like 6'3"... And Harry is physically smaller than most of the guys in his year but not all of them. Example: Azel who is 5'8" - 5'9"
> 
> This one isn't as "jumpy" as the last one... Needed to establish a few things. Hopefully It'll be faster paced again next chapter... Maybe. I think I need more practise writing Tom... Questions? Concrit? Anything random to add?  
> Thanks and hope you enjoyed :)


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